


A Thousand Silhouettes

by lyannas (crossfirehurricane)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: (just in case), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brandon Lives, Family Dynamics, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Platonic Relationships, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Uncle-Nephew Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-10-17 22:48:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10603893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crossfirehurricane/pseuds/lyannas
Summary: The last thing Brandon Stark remembered was darkness, and it was darkness he woke to.Brandon Stark survives King's Landing with scars both physical and emotional. The world as he knew it has changed, and at the center of it all is a bastard boy with his mother's eyes.





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> So for those checking in...
> 
> My main focus is A Place of No Return, which I'm slowly getting back into writing. I suffered something of an emotional writer's block around November of last year and I think I'm recovering.
> 
> I've actually had most of this particular fic written already. I'm posting it in installments so as to not overwhelm you all.
> 
> Enjoy, and find me over at @lyannas on tumblr!
> 
> (Oh, and if it wasn't clear, this fic is 100% non-romantic).

 

**I.**

The last thing Brandon Stark remembered was darkness, and it was darkness he woke to.

Blinking did not change that fact. All around him was black, and the bitter cold. _Am I dead?_ There must be a reason for all this darkness-- there must also be a reason for all this pain.

His neck burned. When Brandon raised his hand to touch it, he felt a length of cloth, wet with blood. He pulled it off ignoring how his nerves screamed, and felt the ridges along his bloody skin-- with it came a fresh wellspring of pain. Touching the wounds that wrapped around his neck, Brandon tapped into his memory, and remembered.

If Brandon had the voice to scream, he would have. If he had the strength to weep, he would have.

 

**II.**

A gaoler came with light and a plate of gruel.

Brandon squinted against the approaching light, before recoiling at the heat of the fire. The growl in his throat was strangled as he choked on the smell of burning flesh, of a blood red throne room, two ropes against his throat-- in poor time, the horror faded away into the gaoler's wretched face. When the man came near, Brandon tried to spit in his eye. Nothing but a rain of spittle left his lips.

The gaoler laughed. “I wouldna do that if I were you,” he said, his voice low and cruel. “Else you won’t get any food at all.”

“Water,” Brandon demanded hoarsely, not brought low enough to beg.

“You think this is some feast? I’m no servant to fetch water and wine for the little lord. Do yourself a favor, and die quickly. If the black cells don’t kill you, the king surely will.”

 _Not if I kill him first_ , he would have said if his dry mouth could form words.

 

**III.**

Brandon remembered a week he spent in the wolfswood with nothing but his sword, a bow, and the clothes on his back.

He had been sixteen, and had told Lord Dustin he was going to ride home to Winterfell for a visit. His men left him just before the winter town, trusting him to ride the rest of the way to the gates of Winterfell without issue. Brandon stopped in an inn to sit and drink a mug of ale while he waited for the men to ride far enough away. He then left his horse in the stables, and walked the rest of the way to the wolfswood.

He wanted to see if he could survive.

On the first day, he killed a fawn. He skinned it for its hide, and cooked it over a fire, foolishly scarfing every bit of meat down, arrogant enough to think that he’d find food the next day.

He didn’t. Not even a hare had crossed his path, and Brandon starved and shivered for three days. On the fourth, he came across a lone wolf. It was a black-eyed wolf with grey fur who circled Brandon, silently snarling. He was moving slow enough to kill; Brandon could have flown an arrow between its eyes, worn its pelt for warmth, and rationed its meat over the next couple of days.

Brandon didn’t. The wolf seemed to nod at him before it slinked away. An hour later, Brandon had killed a stag, 3 hares, and a pheasant.

Four days later, he had been sleeping happily beneath his furs on the cool grass when his father’s men came upon him. Apparently, Lord Rickard had been a breath away from arresting Lord Dustin and the men he sent to escort Brandon for carelessly losing his firstborn son. Brandon had grinned in his father’s stern face when he recounted how well he done out in the wild, and begged him to let him return. His father did the opposite, and placed guards outside his room, where he was confined for the same amount of time that he had spent free.

The memory of his father both pained him and enlivened him. Brandon could survive this black cell. He could survive anything. He had to.

 

 **IV.**  

He had friends in the castle, though he does not know who. It was not the king-- that much was certain, but he knew that someone had interest in keeping him alive and well.

Meat showed up in his gruel from time to time. An entire leg of lamb, or a cut of mutton, or a thin slab of steak would appear, and he ate it at it over the course of days, ignoring how it spoiled, until the next one showed up. The gaoler brought him a torch to keep in his cell, one that Brandon squinted against and agonized over for days before he could open his eyes and smell his own piss again. A maester came to clean the wounds around his neck and replace the bandages. Even the straw in his cell was refreshed every now and again.

“Who sends you?” He growled at the maester, feeling more beast than man chained up in darkness. His voice was harsh and rough from disuse, echoing off the walls with the sound a rusted sword might make when put to the whetstone.

“The king intends for you to die down here-- or he’s forgotten about you, who can say? The man who sends me thinks you’re worth more alive,” the young maester said feebly. His chain was markedly short, shorter than Walys’s had been.

“Does your master want to kill the king?”

The maester looked startled. “I do not think so.”

“Then why would he want me alive?”

 

**V.**

He had spent 413 days in his cell by the time Ned came to him.

He thought it had been a dream. He thought his brother was coming to him across the river of death, prepared to ferry him across and embrace him. He nearly wept at the thought that Ned was among the dead, but it was no dream after all. Ned and Ethan Glover each put one of his arms around their necks and led him out into the brightest light Brandon had ever seen.

It was Ned who cut his hair and shaved him. It was even Ned who bathed him. His eyes were shut, but he knew it was Ned by his quiet voice, though it was different than he remembered it. It was a man’s voice. A voice that had seen and suffered.

“We didn’t know if you were alive,” his brother admitted somberly. “They never sent us any bones. We thought you were dead.” Minutes later: “I married Catelyn Tully in your place. A useless union now-- but she… She is with child. Perhaps there is still a way...”

“Take her,” Brandon had rasped. “Take her, and Winterfell too. I don’t want it.”

“But--" 

“I don’t want it.” It was an honest confession, and one that Brandon doubted he’d regret. Power, responsibility, marriage, children-- Brandon wanted nothing to do with them anymore. “Is Lya with you?” His brother had grown silent over that, and it jarred him enough to force him to open a stinging eye. “Where is she?”

“We don’t know yet,” Ned said as he frowned. Gods, he look different. He even had a beard. “I’ll find her, Brandon, I promise. I’ll bring her home.”

“That was my job,” Brandon said between gritted teeth. “I was to drive a sword through Rhaegar’s black heart, and bring her home.”

“Rhaegar’s dead, Brandon,” his brother said. 

“And the mad king?”

“Dead too. Jaime Lannister killed him-- Robert is king now.”

“Robert Baratheon?”

“Yes. He killed Rhaegar at the Trident.”

“Damn Robert. Damn the Lannister pup too--” Brandon growled, as hot tears streaked down his cheeks. “They were mine to kill.”

 

 **VI**.

Ned left the next day to carry out the king’s business. None visit him but for Robert, but only once. Brandon was still squinting and unused to bright light when he came, but he could recall his arrogant voice with unpleasant ease. 

“I’ve avenged Lyanna, but I won’t rest until she’s in my arms again,” Robert pledged, his voice as obnoxious and thundering as he had remembered, even more so to Brandon’s sensitive senses. “I’ve killed Rhaegar, and the Lannisters brought me the bodies of his wife and dragonspawn.”

“A woman and her children?” Brandon inquired, mouth twisting into a scowl. His fire was slowly returning to him, but not quickly enough. “How brave of you lot.” 

“If I had gotten to them first, they would have suffered the same,” Robert said. “Lya would have wanted that. Look at what they did to her; look at what they did to _you_.” He gestured to his neck, and Brandon’s anger flares.

“Do not call her Lya. You haven’t earned the right,” Brandon growled. “You do not know what my sister wants, nor will you ever. Once she’s found, I’m taking her home.”

“We’re betrothed--”

“I’m calling it off.”

“Says the  _former_ heir to Winterfell,” Robert spat furiously. He looked the part of a storm lord now, bristling and crackling like thunder. “I’ll have her, as your father promised. She’s  _mine_.”

Brandon did not yet have the strength to laugh, so he settled for a scoff instead.  _You could not make her yours if you fought a hundred wars for her._

 

**VII.**

Brandon was still used to counting days-- 39 pass, and his brother had sent word that he would return soon.

Within that time, Brandon had found a way to open his eyes again, though he had difficulty focusing on objects farther than fifteen feet away, and colors appeared more muted, more grey. More importantly, his strength had returned to him, though the fine muscle that once padded his body had wasted away, color had drained from his skin, and he was left skinny and pale. Such matters could be easily fixed-- with food and sun, perhaps he’d once again resemble the man he was before the black cells. 

The scars around his neck, however, were a new and permanent addition. They mimicked the pattern of crisscrossed ropes that he had been bound with, each and every ridge visible, red, and raw. Brandon no longer wore bandages around them-- he would have the whole world see how he cheated death. He would have them see what he would suffer for those he loved.

 

**VIII.**

On the 41st day, Ned returned to tell him Lyanna was dead. Dead, and the mother of a child.

Any strength lost to him over the past year returned in a rush, and Brandon had turned over half of his stately room before Ned got a hold of him.

“It’s not right!” Brandon had bellowed as his world fell out from under him. Ned’s touch had rocked him to his knees, and he clutched at his brother’s shirt like a frightened child. His fingers bled from breaking glass and splintering wood, and stained Ned's shirt. “She was only a girl, Ned, she’s not supposed to die, I swore-- I swore-- And that monster-- that _monster_ , you would raise his bastard? The bastard that killed her?” His voice cracked on the last two words. “How could you? How could you?”

“She made me promise, Brandon,” Ned urged him, strong hands gripping his arms. “Promise that I’d protect him, and bring her home.”

“I was supposed to save her,” Brandon wept over and over. “She was only a girl. Our sister, Ned, our sweet little sister--”

Tears mixed with blood on Ned's shirt. The 41st day proved colder and darker than the black cells ever hoped to be.


	2. Part Two

****

****

 

**VII.**

The return home to Winterfell was neither sweet nor bitter. From the outside, the castle that he was born in had not changed since he had last seen it. The inside, however, was different-- it was hollow.

The old maester had disappeared after father died, and a new one was brought in from the Citadel. Benjen was taller and more of a man than Brandon had expected him to be. The crypts had two new souls sleeping in it. The only thing that appeared untouched was father’s solar, which was exactly as it had been when they left it. It remained like that for some time, until Ned found the heart to enter it.

Though there were still servants and guests to fill the castle to the brim, Winterfell felt empty. It was not that there wasn’t enough people-- the right people were just not there. The same people were not there.

Everything was different-- and around every corner, despite the fact that he entombed her bones with his own hands, Brandon searched for Lyanna.

 

**VIII.**

“Did you mean it?” Ned asked him. “When you gave Winterfell to me?”

“You sealed the alliance with House Tully. You rallied the North. You avenged father. You produced an heir. Were those not the duties of the Lord of Winterfell?”

“But it’s your birthright, Brandon. All of that was meant for you.”

“Death-- death was meant for me, Ned. But I lived. If Winterfell was meant for me too, then I do not want it anymore.”

 

**IX.**

It was hard to believe that while Brandon had wasted away in a black cell, an entire war had begun and ended.

Ned had named some of the dead, men that Brandon once believed immortal, unkillable, or simply undeserving. Men that Brandon had considered friends. Men he had considered enemies.

Ethan Glover, his own squire, perished in Dorne. With him were Willam Dustin, Martyn Cassel, Theo Wull, and Mark Ryswell. Arthur Dayne, slain by small Howland Reed. Ser Gerold Hightower, slain. Ser Oswell Whent, slain. Lewyn Martell and Jonothor Darry, felled in battle.

Thousands of northmen, lords and smallfolk, dead. Thousands of southron smallfolk, dead.

Elia Martell and her two children, murdered.

Rhaegar Targaryen and Aerys Targaryen, killed, but only once.

Rickard Stark, murdered. Lyanna Stark, dead.

Ashara Dayne, dead.

“Threw herself from the tallest tower after I had returned Dawn to her,” Ned had explained somberly. Brandon could not explain his own alarm at that. Perhaps it was because she wasn’t a soldier, but a woman, whose death came by grief rather than by sword. Or perhaps it was because his clearest memory of her was of their night together, where the two of them had been alive, beautiful, and carefree. She had smiled when he kissed her, made a bawdy jest when she unlaced his trousers, sighed against his ear as her heart thumped beneath his.

Neither Ashara nor the man he was existed anymore. The thought rattles him.

 

**X.**

They played host to common men and women Brandon could not recall, as well as lords and ladies who came to grieve for their dead and welcome their new liege lord home. It was usually Brandon they greeted first, calling him “Lord Stark” before Brandon corrected them.

“I’m not Lord Stark,” he would tell them. “Eddard is.”

This often prompted them to awkwardly drift away from him and to Ned instead. Brandon counted that as a blessing-- he could hardly bear the thought of standing in Ned’s place. After spending so much time alone Brandon seemed to have forgotten every social grace ever taught to him. Words came slow and clumsy around strangers. Being around people for too long made him anxious. Too much noise gave him headaches.

It embarrassed him. Once upon a time, in any given room, he had been the man with the loudest laugh, the most smiles, and carried on with strangers as well as his own kin. Now he was a scarred and broken shell of a man who hid away in his rooms like a little boy when guests came to visit.

Tonight was no different than any other. He nursed his most recent headache with a cup of wine, wondering to himself if it was too soon to disappear. The great hall was overly warm. Too many people spoke at once. Every accidental brush against him made him jump like a skittish kitten. For the faces he could see, they stared at him. No doubt they all wondered the same thing-- what happened to Brandon Stark?

Deciding he had enough, Brandon removed himself from the great hall, grimacing as he bumped into others along the way. The wine sloshed in the goblet he still held until half of it was on the floor. He downed the rest before he entered the corridor.

“Brandon!” A woman’s voice called out to him. Brandon pressed his eyes shut and considered pretending he did not hear. “Brandon Stark, is that you?”

Biting back a sigh, Brandon turned to come face-to-face with a woman he knew well. In fact, the last time he had seen her, his cock had been inside her. “Barbrey,” he greeted flatly.

“Gods be good,” she gasped, pressing a hand to her heart. She looked much the same as he remembered her, but her dark hair was pinned back into a knot and she wore all black. Nothing like the adventurous maid he had happened upon in the Rills. “What have the dragons done to you?”

_They ripped my heart out._

“Do you want something, Barbrey?” Brandon asked, forgetting his courtesies. “Apologies-- Lady Dustin.”

She offered an amused smile. “I am surprised you remembered. My husband is dead, of course. He died in Dorne, fighting valiantly to save your sister. Lady Lyanna’s bones returned, though my husband’s did not.” Her smiled curdled for the briefest second before it turned pleasant again. “Is it true what they say? That you’re no longer the Lord of Winterfell?”

“The honor belongs with my brother.” A beat pounded against his skull; Brandon shut his eyes to dull the pain.

“You poor dear,” Barbrey murmured. He felt her cold hands close around one of his. “But it’s better this way, is it not? You never wanted to marry the Tully girl. You were always too wild for a soft southron woman.” She squeezed his hand as Brandon opened his eyes again. Her brown eyes looked sharp and steady into his, and her angular face was softened by her smile. “I must admit something, Brandon. I was made upset when your brother told me that he left my husband’s bones in Dorne. How could he ever rest in such a place, beside the men who killed him?” Her gaze darkened. “I love you Starks so. My late husband loved you all too, as does my father. He dines with Lord Eddard now, but he feels my pain keenly, for his cousin Mark’s bones have also been left to rot in the sun.” Her mouth gave an odd twitch, one that Brandon found difficult to decipher when paired with her sweet tone. “My father despairs the insult, but I believe this can be fixed.”

His head gave another _thump_. “I do not understand, Lady Dustin.”

“Marry me, Brandon,” she said with a tremble in her voice. “I loved you. I love you still. My husband had no surviving kin, so it is I who is left as Lady of Barrowtown. House Dustin could only be so proud to have Starks continue their line. _I_ could only be so proud.”

Brandon quickly pulled his hand away. “No,” he said plainly. _Thump_.

“I know you must think on it,” Barbrey followed up quickly. “I have not even been a widow a year-- it would not do to marry so soon.”

 _Thump_. “No,” Brandon repeated, his head aching.

“I do not care what those dragons did to you, I could care for you--” _Thump_.

“I said no!” His voice had risen louder than expected, but his head was splitting open. He pressed the heel of his hand to his temple. “You’ll excuse me, my lady,” he growled as he stalked away.

“You Starks take everything,” she called out from behind him. “My husband, my kin, my maidenhead, and you give me nothing in return!”

His headache does not subside until he is alone in his room, but even then there’s slow, soft _thump, thump, thump_...

 

**XI.**

Brandon could not bear to share a room with his nephews-- Robb, his brother’s trueborn son, was always on his mother’s hip, and therefore not far from the crowds of people. As for the other boy-- his sister’s boy, the one Ned named “Jon” --he was almost always alone, tucked away in his nursery with his wetnurse. Even the isolation of Jon’s nursery was suffocating, for at any given moment, his sister’s son would be there, alive, breathing, awake, while his sister was bones in a crypt.

 _I would trade you for her in a heartbeat,_ said the voice in his head whenever he accidentally caught sight of him. _That you are here-- That I am here, while she is gone, is a sin._

 

**XII.**

“Brandon? Can I talk to you?”

Benjen emerged from the thicket of trees quietly and gently, so as not to startle him. Or at least he thought it was Benjen, for it was his voice, but he was too far away for Brandon’s weak eyes to see in sharp relief.

“Of course you can,” he returned.

Brandon set his sword down; he had been practicing in the godswood so as to be away from noise, and because he had missed swordplay. He was quickly making strides to where he had been before he was imprisoned. His weakened muscles had apparently retained memory of brandishing a sword, and as soon as Brandon had returned to practice, he recalled all his tricks with remarkable swiftness.

Benjen stood so that he was hardly a foot away. His face, which had been a mask of sorrow ever since Brandon returned, was in much clearer focus at this distance. “I think I’m leaving, Brandon.”

Brandon blinked. “Leaving? Did Ned find a lord who would squire you?”

“No. There is a man from the Night’s Watch staying at Winterfell tonight. I intend to leave with him in the morning.”

“The Night’s Watch?” Brandon repeated, confused. “Are you sure? You know what their vows are like, don’t you?” No women, no children, no loyalties but to the realm-- Brandon remembered how he used to balk at such vows, and jest with his friends about how he could do with no children, but no women too?

“Yes. I am prepared to take them,” Benjen said solemnly. “I cannot stay here any longer, Brandon. I cannot take it anymore.”

Brandon said nothing. He understood all too well-- if there was a place Brandon could run off too, he would do the same as Benjen and leave. But there was no place that would take a man who had headaches at the sound of more than three voices speaking at once, and who couldn’t see farther than the door of his chambers from his place in his bed.

“It’s my fault, you know. My fault that Lya is gone,” Benjen said, his voice thick with emotion. “I knew she wanted to leave. I knew she was going to run away. If only I tried harder to make her stay-- or told you, or father, she would still be here. Father would still be here.” His little brother was trying to be a man and not to cry, but a tear rolled down his cheek anyway.

“It’s not your fault, Ben,” Brandon said quietly, but not confidently. He couldn’t figure out whose fault it was, really, but he sensed they were all to blame.

“It is. But it doesn’t matter anymore, does it?” Benjen said miserably before wiping his face. “I’m going to leave tomorrow. Can I wake you early, so we can say goodbye?”

Brandon nodded, unsure of what else to say. He cannot help but think that his younger, unscarred self would have cracked a joke about his brother’s upcoming vow of celibacy, or made light of what sort of jobs they’d give a young recruit, but nothing clever came to mind.

 

**XIII.**

Catelyn confounded him. She seemed loathe to share a room with him, and always quick to scurry away before he could cross her path. It was undoubtedly strange for her, to have her former betrothed live in the same castle as her current husband, but Brandon saw nothing amiss. It felt like it was a hundred years ago that he had been riding to their wedding before news of Lyanna convinced him to turn around.

While there was nothing between Brandon and Catelyn, there was a coldness between Catelyn and Ned. It could even be called an awkwardness, likely the result of their hurried marriage, long separation, sudden trueborn child, and even more sudden bastard child. Catelyn stayed away from Jon’s nursery more than even Brandon did. He could hardly blame her-- for all she knew, the child was her husband’s bastard, and her husband was far too honorable to tell her the truth behind the child’s birth, and too honorable to leave his kin with strangers.

Brandon was not as honorable, but even he knew better than to relieve her with the truth. Yet a part of him cannot help but pity the boy-- motherless, fatherless, alone in the world. It was a becoming a familiar life for Brandon, but it was a cold one for a child.

 

**XIV.**

_He is Rhaegar’s son. He is Aerys’s grandson. He’s a Targaryen. He killed my sister._

Brandon reminded himself of these facts over and over whenever he felt his heart flutter at the sight of Jon. He could not bear to touch him, always watched him from afar either in Ned’s arms, in his crib, or at his cousin’s side.

_He is Rhaegar’s son. He is Aerys’s grandson. He’s a Targaryen. He killed my sister._

He had to remind himself, had to remember who the child was and why he was here, even if the child looked like Ned, even if he had Lyanna’s blood.

_He is Rhaegar’s son. He is Aerys’s grandson. He’s a Targaryen. He killed my sister._

Ned’s promise to Lyanna was folly-- how could he ever love and protect him? How could he look at him without thinking of Lyanna, of father, of Rhaegar, of Aerys? Of what he’d lost, of what they’d done to him?

_He is Rhaegar’s son. He is Aerys’s grandson. He’s a Targaryen. He killed my sister._

Yet, Lyanna begged to have him sheltered. She birthed the creature in blood and sorrow, and she begged for his life, not her own. Brandon wished he had been with her-- he wished he saw her in her last moments, holding his hand and begging him for his mercy and his love. He could not lie to himself-- Brandon would have undone his honor in moments, just as Ned had. A child, a lie, a never-ending reminder, all of that he would have borne for her.

_He is Rhaegar’s son. He is Aerys’s grandson. He’s a Targaryen. He killed my sister._

Ned was less selfish than him, and more honorable.

_He is Rhaegar’s son. He is Aerys’s grandson. He’s a Targaryen. He killed my sister._

If he told himself this, then why was it so difficult to hate him?

 

**XV.**

Brandon is reminded daily that he is out of place in Winterfell.

It starts from when he wakes, his eyes taking ages to readjust to light. As they slowly refocused it would give him hope every time that perhaps today he’d wake up and see as he did before the black cells. It makes him hope he can focus on objects farther than 30 paces away, that the blackness around the edges of his vision would fade away if he laid in bed just a little longer. The change never comes, and daily he must accept the fact. Brandon trudged down long corridors whose ends he could not see, blurry servants making room for him, catching sight of their faces only as he passes them.

Then the noise begins-- the clash of steel from the courtyard, the whinny of horses, the shouts of children, Robb’s cries, overlapping conversations, all of it assaults his senses until he finds a quiet place once more. Fire was smelled before it was seen, the scent of burning flesh crawling up his nose, and as the weather turned colder, Brandon smelled it all the time. Apart from his own room, it was the godswood that offered his only respite, for as long as he could stomach the presence of the gods.

Winterfell was once home to him-- but what was it now? Mother, father, and Lyanna were dead, Benjen had left, and Ned had his own family. Everyone had a place, except for him. He was like a ghost: a man who should have died but lived instead, only to occupy spaces where no one wanted him.

“What is left for me here?” He asked his dearest friend, the heart tree, one day. “Why did I live? Why me?”

The tree wept for him.

 

**XVI.**

369 days pass in Winterfell before Brandon feels a little more like his old self.

He gained some of the weight he had lost, and some of the muscle too. He could stand being around people for longer before headaches struck. He could find reason laugh from time to time. One night, he had even gotten drunk, and as he stumbled to his room, he came upon Jon’s instead.

The boy had been sitting up in his crib, trying to hold onto the wooden rails so he may stand on shaky legs. Brandon watched him from his place in the doorway-- not because he was entertained, but because the sight rattled loose a memory of something painfully similar: an infant Lyanna, attempting to do the same, making that same face of determination and focus, narrowing those same eyes, as the same hair fell in her face.

Eventually, Jon got to his feet. He seemed pleased at his accomplishment and squatted a few times to show his delight. “There’s a boy,” Brandon praised quietly from afar.

The child seemed a little stuck, however. He was too frightened to drop from a squat and onto his rump, and instead stood stiffly on the rails, frowning quietly. _That_ was different-- Lyanna used to scream whenever something didn’t go her way.

Pitying him, Brandon walked over to the crib. He stretched out a hand that the boy could use for balance. With a surprisingly strong grip, he clutched his forefinger and slowly lowered himself back on the mattress.

“Not so bad, innit?” Brandon slurred softly. “Next time be brave, aye?”

The boy looked up at him with sharp grey eyes, appearing to understand.

 

**XVII.**

Boredom dismantled his indifference to his nephews piece by piece until he found himself spending more time with the children than with people his age.

Robb and Jon delighted in climbing their uncle like a human tree. For children so different in appearances, they reacted much the same to play-- they giggled when Brandon relented to being climbed and screamed with delight when he tossed them in the air. Somehow, their noise was more tolerable than the noise of adult company. Children were far more forgiving, and more entertaining. They were stickier and more demanding too, but Brandon still found them to be far better company.

“Alright, enough already,” Brandon pleaded with a smile, falling back against the floor before the children resumed their climb. “I yield!”

Catelyn chose that moment to walk into the nursery. She wore an expression of fondness when she looked upon her son, but adopted a disapproving stare when her eyes flitted to Jon.

“Time for bed,” she told Robb as she scooped him up off the floor. The babe took the departure poorly, and burst into tears as he was taken away from play. Brandon waved to him weakly as he turned the corner screaming.

That left Jon with him, the boy characteristically quiet and calm. He accepted the end of playtime with a serious stare, dark grey eyes boring into his uncle expectantly.

Brandon avoided his eyes; it was still difficult to look at him sometimes. He peeled himself off the floor and got to his feet. He moved to search for the woman who cared for him, but when Jon call to him and reached up his little arms, Brandon relented, scooping him up. “You look like Ned, you know that? A Stark, through and through.” Brandon murmured, reaching out to smooth down his dark hair. “Not a trace of-- of him in you.” _Of Rhaegar._

Jon blinked, obviously unable to decipher his words, then tentatively rested his head on his uncle’s shoulder. A sticky little hand reached up to touch the scars on his neck and moved back and forth over them. Brandon supposed the boy liked the way the ridges felt under his fingers, and did not withdraw.

He makes himself forget, just for the moment, that it was Jon’s grandfather who gave him those scars.

Jon’s eyes fluttered as he fought sleep. A sudden wave of pity washed over him for the babe in his arms. _Motherless, fatherless, alone, and out of place. Like me._

“You don’t belong here any more than I do,” Brandon mumbled, rubbing circles on his back. “What place does Winterfell have for you?” The boy heaved a sagely sigh in response. “Aye, well, you’re only a babe, what do you know? Gods help me, I’m the one asking.”

A little furrow appeared between Jon’s brows that reminded him of Lyanna. Despite his own restraint, it knocks the breath out of him. _You’re all I have left of her,_ Brandon realized. _But you don’t belong here._

 

**XVIII.**

Brandon packed his belongings in a trunk one night, and spoke to Ned.

“Have we still got that hunting lodge on the edge of the wolfswood?” He asked. “I remember father took us there once-- it was small, no more than a few rooms. There was a shed in the back to hang animal skins.”

Ned nodded. “Aye, I think we do. Why? Do you plan to hunt? I don’t think that’s wise, considering…” Self-conscious, his brother stepped closer, though he was already close enough to see.

“No-- I plan to live there. It’s empty, isn’t it?”

His brother’s eyes widened. “Aye, it’s empty but-- why? Has anyone said anything to you? You are welcome here, brother, this is your home--”

“No longer. I cannot bear Winterfell,” Brandon admitted. It was the first time he had said it aloud-- and somehow, it’s liberating. “The lodge is quiet. It’s small. There are no ghosts there. I would be happier.” Ned still did not look convinced, so he added, “It is only an hour’s ride from Winterfell. I’ll visit, Ned.”

“Very well,” Ned relented, still hesitant. “Take some people with you-- a cook, and a servant to clean the place for you.”

“And a wetnurse,” Brandon added flatly.

Ned, thinking it was a joke, chuckled nervously. “I didn’t mean it that way, I know you can take care of yourself-- but surely you don’t mean to cook and clean on your own?”

“Not at all. The wetnurse is for Jon.”

“What?”

“I’m taking him with me,” Brandon announced, resolute.

Ned fixed him with a suspicious stare, as if trying to figure out if this was a jest. When Brandon remain stoic, his expression turned alarmed. “What? Brandon, he is only a babe. You cannot take him away from here.”

“This shall be the third time I’m repeating myself: I will require a wetnurse.”

“But-- This is his home. He and Robb will grow close as brothers, in time, closer than any of us. He is happy here.”

“For how long?” Brandon asked, the promise of an argument stirring the wolf inside him. “How long will he be happy? When he grows up and hears them all call him a bastard, will he be happy? When lords and ladies look upon him with disapproval, will he be happy? Only you and I know he is your nephew-- the rest know him as your bastard son,” Brandon reminded him firmly. “You are raising him as an equal to Robb-- I cannot imagine that your lady wife approves of this arrangement.”

Ned stiffens, and his face darkens. “I do not need her approval,” he said with a hint of rage-- a rare sight in his normally placid brother. Strangely enough, it pleases Brandon to see it. “Jon is my blood-- for as long as I live and breathe, he will have a place here.”

“That is why I will visit,” Brandon said. “But I am taking the boy with me. It is better for us all-- for Catelyn, for you, for me--”

“I said--”

“--And for the boy. I will give him the attention he requires. He may grow feeling that he is a beloved nephew, not a lord’s bastard get.”

Ned bristled. “I would not let him feel that way.”

“No, but others will. You are not so naive as to believe that the lords around you will see him as anything other than a stain on your honor?” Brandon lowered his voice. “What if something were to happen to you? Who would care for him-- Lady Catelyn? Surely you do not expect your lady wife to nurse him at her teat and see to it that he is clean, and fed, and happy? The child is not her son. She has no duty to him.”

Ned’s silence led Brandon to believe that he was considering his words, rather than dismissing them straight off. Emboldened, Brandon continued.

“I swore to our mother on her deathbed that I would protect you all. You have seen what I would do for Lya.” He touched the scars on his neck. “I would do the very same for her boy. I will carry your promise to protect him, Ned. If he is out of sight, away with me, then he will be safer than he would be in Winterfell.”

Ned was silent for a minute longer. “Allow me to think on it,” he said.

Brandon nearly laughed. “Lord of Winterfell or no, I’m your older brother. I’m not asking your permission,” he remarked flippantly. “He is my nephew, as he is yours. Call him your bastard if you like, but that does not change the truth.”

“But what do you know of raising a child?” Ned returned sharply. "It is not as simple as taking a child in. It is not simple at all." He looked much like father when he scolded him like that-- arms crossed, jaw set, eyes narrowed. The role of the Lord of Winterfell suited him.

“Did you know anything of it when you became a father?” Brandon retorted. “I’ll learn. And I shall only ever be an hour away if I need you.”

“If you’ll be so near, then why leave and take him with you?”

Brandon hesitated to answer. The reason underlying it all was difficult to explain to someone who was glad to call Winterfell home, someone who still felt he had a right to it. Brandon had abandoned his right to Winterfell the moment he failed to save his father, and the castle dogged his every step to continue to remind him of that fact.

“I want to give him his own home-- a place that belongs to him. He may have our blood, but he is not a Stark, Ned. He’ll have to find his own way one day, away from Winterfell.” Speaking those words caused him undue distress that darkened his vision around the corners of his eyes. It was often like this when he had his headaches, but there was no headache now, only a pinch in his heart. “Let’s not make it difficult for him.”

“I do not understand,” Ned said, infuriatingly puzzled.

“I cannot explain to you what it’s like to live in a castle that is no longer your home,” Brandon admitted plainly. “Winterfell was my birthright and now I cannot stand it. Imagine how it will feel to Jon, who has no rights to it. There is no kindness in letting him believe otherwise. He does not belong here, Ned, and nor do I.”

Ned’s silence lasted longer than the one before. He lowered himself into the seat behind his desk, folded his hands beneath his chin, and stared at the papers scattered across the wood. Brandon sat in the seat across from him, taking the liberty of spreading out and being comfortable, lest Ned’s characteristic silence stretch out longer than he liked.

“Very well,” Ned finally relented with a sigh. “But you will bring guards with you too.”

Brandon started. “No guards--”

“At least one, Brandon. I’m your liege lord-- you will humor me in this.” His brother had returned to his characteristic seriousness, though this this time he was much bolder. “And you will come and visit weekly, or I’ll be at your door to come and see him.”

“As you wish, my lord,” Brandon returned with a sardonic grin. His brother turned red and mumbled something incomprehensible before calling Maester Luwin to help him arrange for a small party to travel to the hunting lodge.

 

**XIX.**

Before he leaves, he visits his father and sister in the crypts.

They have statues made for the both of them-- an idea of Ned’s invention. Their lord father’s statue carried a sword across his lap. Their sister’s had no sword, but she was the only woman in these crypts to have a statue of her own. In stone she was young and smiling.

Brandon showed Jon, who blinked at the statue blankly.

“That’s your mother,” Brandon whispered to him in his arms. “You look just like her, don’t you think?”

The boy said nothing, but he continued to stare at the girl carved out of stone.


	3. Part Three

****

****

**XX.**

The hunting lodge was Brandon’s paradise. It was a single story cabin on the edge of the wolfswood, made up of four rooms, a kitchen, and a standalone shed behind it. There were no long corridors, only two servants, and best of all, no noise.

Well, no noise until Jon was weaned and the wetnurse took her leave.

Jon had hardly cried in his presence before, but it seemed now that he cried all the time. He cried when he was hungry, cried when he had soiled himself, cried when he was tired, cried when he refused to sleep. Brandon would stay up, rocking the boy in his arms until he himself nearly cried from the agonizing headaches the boy’s screams brought on. He fed him soft foods from his own hands, irrationally fearful that utensils would hurt his soft gums-- and after his experience with a teething, irritable Jon, Brandon decided he would rather do with cleaning his hands half a hundred times a day than accidentally knocking a spoon into his tender gums or sensitive milk teeth.

For the first 92 days, Brandon was sure he had made a mistake. What did he know of raising children, really? Being an older brother was nothing like being a father-- he never spent any nights sitting in front of one of his sibling’s beds too busy worrying over them to go to sleep. He had never had to wake in the middle of the night to rock them back to sleep. Yet here he was, short on sleep, more agitated than usual, eyesight foggier than ever, wondering if he should trade Jon for a _quiet_ hunting lodge.

 

**XXI.**

When Jon comes running to him after skinning his knee, when he curls into his side as he sleeps, when he sits on his lap whilst sucking his thumb, when he giggles as he blew raspberries onto his stomach, when his small hands run over the short hairs of his beard, when he calls him “nuncle” and presses wet kisses to his face-- those were the sweet moments that made up for the hard ones. They made up for them a hundred times over.

 

**XXII.**

 

“Nuncle,” Jon called to him, tugging at his hand. “Nuncle, look.”

Brandon’s eyes followed his nephew’s finger to a spot near the woods. There was not much to see; at that distance, everything was blurry and indistinguishable to him, but Jon didn’t understand his uncle’s limitations.

“What is it, Jon?” Brandon kneeled down to his level.

“Dog,” the boy answered. He edged a little closer to his uncle. “Big.”

Brandon squinted, hoping to perhaps catch a glimpse of something dark and moving amongst the trees, but to no avail. He rose to his feet and picked him up.

“What color is it?”

Jon considered his answer. “Black.” His little fist bunched up the back of Brandon’s shirt. His eyes were wide and scoping.

“Don’t be frightened,” Brandon reassured him. “The dog’s all the way over there, and you’re right here, with me.” Still, his nephew’s fist did not relax. “You want to scare off the dog? Roar at it, like a bear. Come now, roar!”

Brandon demonstrated, roaring as loudly as he could toward the direction of the trees. His nephew responded with giggles that rocked his whole body.

“What are you laughing at?” Brandon inquired with a smile. “Roar!”

Brandon roared again, after which Jon mimicked him, throwing both arms up as he yelled something between a roar and a shout. He fell into a fit of giggles immediately after, one that required Brandon to brace his body to keep him from tumbling out of his arms.

“Is the dog gone?” Brandon asked him when his laughs subsided. “Bye-bye, dog?”

“Bye-bye,” Jon repeated, grinning from ear to ear. The two sit on the porch until the smell of dinner wafted from inside the cabin. Brandon kissed his temple and brought him inside.

 

**XXIII.**

Brandon visits Winterfell often, as promised. If he went more than a fortnight without making the hour-long journey, Ned would show up at his door instead. Ned’s sullen glares and why-didn’t-you-visits grew tiring after the first few times, thus Brandon made sure to make the journey to Winterfell before it came to that.

Jon had seen two namedays and was at an age where he stopped crying and started speaking his desires, however simple that speech was. The change had made Jon a boy who was rather calm and sweet for his age, as opposed to his cousin Robb, who, despite his newfound speech, still screamed his demands.

They rode for Winterfell with Jon’s little fists gripping the reins, dwarfed by Brandon’s larger hands that covered them. He asked after every edifice that passed and called out the names of the animals he spotted along the way. He had inquired after every soul in the winter town by the time they reached the gates to Winterfell. Brandon hopped off their horse by the stables, and beckoned for Jon to slide off the saddle he had shared with his uncle and into his arms. He carried him inside, where he found Ned and Catelyn in Ned’s solar.

The two paused their conversation upon their entry. Brandon nodded in greeting and put Jon down on his feet.

“Greet your lord father,” Brandon commanded the boy gently, mouth barely able to form the words that made up the necessary lie. Jon clutched his pant leg, hiding behind him. “You were talking my ear off the whole way here, and now you’re playing at being shy? Come now, you saw him just the other day. _Jon_.”

The sterner tone urged Jon out from behind him. “Hello, father,” he said shyly. Brandon did this best to ignore how the muscles of Catelyn’s jaw shifted beneath her skin.

“Hello, Jon,” Ned returned warmly, walking around the desk to scoop him up in his arms. “Robb has been asking after you ever since you left. Shall we go see Robb?”

Jon nodded, and the two exited the solar together, leaving Brandon and Catelyn alone. Catelyn does not meet his eye, but her annoyance rolls off her in waves.

“You disapprove,” Brandon commented as he idly rubbed his scars.

“It is not my place to approve or disapprove. My husband may do with his bastard as he wishes,” she replied cooly.

“Even love him?”

Her jaw sets. “Even that.”

Brandon chuckled to himself. “Thank your gods you did not marry me, Lady Stark, for I would love him just as much, and our children far less.”

It was an unkind truth, but a truth all the same.

 

**XXIV.**

His housemaid snored. Not big, rattling snores, but it was a soft, consistent snore that grated on Brandon’s still sensitive ears. She was lucky she was warm and had lovely tits, else he might have kicked her out of his bed so he could get a full night’s sleep.

Instead, he got up from his bed and pulled on a pair of trousers, moving through the familiar darkness as his hands guided him through the small house. Brandon was half blind in daytime, but damn near fully blind at night. It was touches and textures that led him into Jon’s bedroom.

The boy slept peacefully in his bed; all he could hear was Jon’s soft breathing, a comforting sound that he’d grown to love ever since they lived in this house together. Brandon found the edge of the bed and sat upon it. He gently nudged Jon to the far side of the bed.

“Nuncle,” Jon whined sleepily as he moved over to make room.

“Hush, I’ve gotten less sleep than you,” Brandon grumbled as he pulled the covers over the both of them.

Jon only sighed with the countenance of an old man. When he fell back asleep and his soft, lulling breaths returned, Brandon slipped quickly and easily into slumber.

 

**XXV.**

Jon is five when Brandon teaches him to ride a horse. Brandon shared the saddle with him, as they had done before half a hundred times, hands covering his little fists as he showed him how to grip the reins and coax the horse into a trot. His nephew was a quick learner with a sharp mind; it takes only a few turns around the yard before he was leading the horse without his uncle’s help.

“I should have put you on a horse an age ago!” Brandon exclaimed, delighted at the boy’s quick progress. “Look, Jon, you’re doing it all by yourself.”

“I am?” His nephew asked, eyes wide as he briefly diverted his gaze up into Brandon’s face.

“Yes, you are. Shall I get off so you may ride the horse alone?”

“Does Robb ride by himself?”

Brandon grinned. “I’m certain he doesn’t. You’re more like me-- a natural rider. Did you know I started riding when I was even younger than you?” The boy shook his head. “Yes, and your moth--” Brandon caught himself. “Your aunt Lyanna was even earlier. I taught her to ride when I was only a little older than you.”

Jon made a face that meant he was doing some maths in his head. “But you were small,” the boy said.

“Yes, I was, and I was already a better rider than half the men.”

His memory picked at him, nostalgia bled into sorrow, and once again he was thinking of Lyanna. She would approve of her son learning to ride at an early age. In fact, she would surely haunt him if he had allowed Jon to go another year without learning to ride a horse.

“Here, pull back on the reins and make the horse stop,” Brandon instructed. Jon obeyed. “I’m getting off, and you’ll go a few more turns on your own, aye?”

Brandon jumped down from the saddle. His nephew turned his face to look at him in wide-eyed astonishment, reins held tight in his small fists.

“Be brave. I’ll be walking right next to you,” he assured him. The words were enough for fear to give way to trust, and Jon gave a little “hy-ah” before he stirred his horse to walk again.

 

**XXVI.**

War arrived again. The Greyjoys had made some noise in Lannisport and brought the might of the Seven Kingdoms upon them.

Brandon had entertained the idea of joining the fight for a while. It would have pleased him to throw some krakens back into the sea, but he was reminded kindly by Ned that a warrior who could not see clearly past 30 paces was useless to everyone.

Instead, Brandon took up Ned’s mantle in Winterfell while his brother fought the king’s war. This meant tending to the troops and lords that passed through and sending enough hunting parties to keep stores stocked, but mostly it meant watching his nephews and niece play together.

He spent more time with Catelyn too, who often sat across from him in the den as she embroidered or sewed. It almost felt like they were wed, and he the Lord of Winterfell, as it was once meant to be. Granted, they hardly spoke to each other and there was a swell to her middle that she did not care to explain to him, but perhaps that was as it was meant to be too.

 

**XXVII.**

The boys were asleep on the floor, tangled up in each other, while Sansa sat on his lap, curled up against his chest as her bright blue eyes opened and closed, fighting sleep. The night was so peaceful, and the den so warm, that Brandon had closed his eyes too.

Then suddenly, Catelyn wept. Her sobs were likely meant to be quiet and soft, but they woke Brandon anyways.

He rubbed his eyes. “What is it?” He asked her groggily.

Her eyes flickered to his in surprise. “Nothing,” she insisted hastily, wiping away at the tears on her fair face.

Brandon stared at her through heavy-lidded eyes, absentmindedly rubbing circles on Sansa’s back the way that Jon liked it at her age. “He’ll be home soon,” he said in a low voice. “It’s nearly over. The Greyjoys are retreating, the war is won, and Ned’s just cleaning up the coast, tossing whatever krakens that wash up on shore back into the sea.”

Catelyn nodded as she wept. _Even weeping she is graceful and pretty._

“He may even be home in time for that,” he added, and gestured to her round belly.

Catelyn nodded again. “I want him to be,” she sniffled.

It was Brandon’s turn to nod.

 

**XXVIII.**

Eddard Stark returned to Winterfell, and Arya Stark followed after a single day.

Brandon had never seen Ned so delirious with joy. He had carried his daughter all over the castle for days before Brandon had a chance to hold her himself.

“It’s Lyanna,” he murmured, fingers trembling as he brushed the soft wisps of dark hair. “Gods be good, Ned, it’s her.”

“I know,” Ned answered with a somber smile. “I know.”

 

**XXIX.**

While caught up in Ned’s return and Arya’s birth, Brandon almost neglected to notice another new addition to Winterfell.

“Tell me your name,” Brandon commanded of the dark-haired boy when he found him petting a horse in the stables. He knew his name already, knew his reason for being here, but he could not let himself go unknown. It was the Stark in him, still clinging to fondness of Winterfell, that required him to know who its new lodger was.

“Theon Greyjoy,” the boy answered tremulously.

“How old are you?”

“Ten.”

“Do you understand why you’re here?”

Theon lowered his eyes but did not answer.

“I asked you a question.”

“I understand why."

“Do you know who I am?”

Theon shook his head.

“I’m Brandon Stark. I’m Lord Stark’s older brother.”

“But you are not Lord Stark?”

“I am not. Be glad of this, for my brother’s heart is kinder than mine.”

The boy lowered his eyes again.

Brandon supposed he should pity the boy; he had been torn away from his home so he could be held as a glorified hostage of the crown. It was necessary, of course, as all actions taken in politics and war were deemed necessary.

“You will mind yourself under Lord Stark’s care.” _Or rather, your father should mind himself._

“Yes, my lord.”

“I’m no lord, boy. ‘Brandon’ will do.”

 

**XXX.**

Jon took his lessons with Maester Luwin, who after instructing Robb in Winterfell, rode to their cabin to deliver the very same lessons.

Brandon, who had been glad to put such lessons behind him, did not sit with them as the maester explained maths and history to his young nephew. It was usually a restless couple of hours, as Jon was his only worthwhile company at the cabin. As they studied, he sat on the porch steps, taking a whetstone to his already-sharp sword.

He continued in this until the maester’s approaching footsteps bid him to stop. Brandon rose to greet the old man, who smiled sagely at him in greeting.

“He does well in his lessons,” the maester informed him. “Bright boy. He is not so fond of maths and writing, but he spares his attention for history. He spares more attention on the whole when he _doesn’t_ take these lessons with his half-brother. I’m glad on the days that I see him here and not in Winterfell.”

Brandon warmed at image of his two nephews distracting each other when the good-natured maester wasn’t looking. “He’s smart, unlike me. He’s always asking me questions about those kings and lords you tell him about, but I tell him to save them for you.”

The maester chuckled. “I’ll be on my way. I hope to come by tomorrow as well.”

“Thank you, maester.”

Brandon saw the maester off before returning indoors, where Jon still sat at the kitchen table, books strewn in front of him. He looked bored and slumped in his seat, but upon seeing his uncle return, he straightened and lit up. “You sharpened your sword,” his nephew remarked suddenly. “But you said you were going to let _me_ do it!”

“I had to do _something_ while you and the maester sat in here,” Brandon returned with shrug and smile. He sheathed the sword and placed it on the table between them.

“Maybe you should sit with us and learn something,” Jon mumbled sullenly. For a boy of seven he could be remarkably mouthy, but that was most likely a consequence of Brandon’s lenient child-rearing.

“It’s more a torment for me than for you-- without you I’ve got nothing to do.”

Jon sighed. “You can train, or go riding, or make a new cloak like you _promised_.”

“Those things are more fun with you.”

Jon sighed again, and Brandon ruffled his hair. Jon half-heartedly pushed his hand away. He was wearing that sullen, serious expression he usually wore when he was in deep thought. Brandon knew to wait patiently until a question was formed.

“Uncle,” Jon began, his eyes focused on his finger as it idly traced patterns in the leather sheath. “What’s a bastard?”

Brandon supposed he ought to have known the question would be coming. He had never said it to Jon, and surely Ned never did either, but he knew the word was eventually going to introduce itself to his nephew. “A bastard is a child born from people who are not married,” Brandon explained.

“Like Lady Catelyn and father?”

“Yes, they’re married, so their children are trueborn.”

“Robb and me have the same father,” Jon noted. “We’re brothers.”

A lie was a lie, and Brandon hated lies-- but he also learned to hold his tongue, even when it wanted to speak the truth. “Yes. But your mothers are different.”

“So I’m a bastard, but Robb isn’t?”

“He’s a Stark. You’re a Snow.” That much, Brandon supposed, would always be true. His nephew was a bastard no matter who he said his parents were.

Jon grew silent again, making that same thoughtful expression as before. “Who is my mother?”

Despite his better senses, despite the fact that he knew he would be asked the question one day, Brandon’s mouth went dry. He wanted so sorely to answer his nephew with the truth-- of who his mother was, even who his father was, why he was here, why he mattered, why Brandon loved him despite it all.

But he couldn’t. Not now, when he wouldn’t understand why or how or the importance of keeping it a secret.

“I don’t know who your mother was, Jon,” Brandon answered quietly, hoping that lowering his volume would soften the pain of the lie. The burden of this secret felt heavier now than it ever had been before.

Jon appeared crestfallen at this response. He lowered his eyes back to the sheathed sword and gave a sigh that aged him beyond his seven years.

A rush of affection swelled inside his chest, and Brandon found himself taking hold of his nephew’s chin to raise his face. “Stark or Snow, it makes no difference to me. We share the same blood, you and I. We share that, and so much more.”

_We share fates. We share a home. We share a life._

Jon Snow pulled his face away as tears welled up in his eyes, and for a devastating second Brandon thinks he’s said something to upset him. His nephew suddenly rose to his feet, then rushed to embrace Brandon, cheek pressed to his uncle’s broad chest.

Brandon returned the embrace, his nose buried in Jon’s soft hair. In a moment that spanned a lifetime, Brandon tried to imagine this with a son of his own, or with Robb, with Sansa or Arya, but nothing felt as sweet, as right as this. It had been a hard and hurting path the gods had set him on, but it seemed to him that they had led him into something kind.

“Alright, Jon?” Brandon murmured into the boy’s hair. He nodded in response, tickling Brandon’s nose. “Good, because I think I’ve another sword in the shed that needs sharpening.”

Jon grinned when he pulled away from his uncle, and ran to take a head start.


	4. Part Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap! Follow me at @lyannas on tumblr if you want to keep up with me.

****

**XXII.**

Lady Catelyn still disapproved of Jon’s presence. Unlucky for her, Brandon cared even less now than he ever had before.

Robb and Jon trained together in the yard under Ser Rodrik’s watchful eye. They brandished wooden swords, though Jon begged the master-at-arms for an upgrade to steel. This was no doubt thanks to Brandon who had no wooden swords at his hunting lodge, and only true, sharp steel.

“What if he severs a finger? An arm?” Ned demanded to know upon learning of this.

“His swing isn't strong enough yet,” Brandon returned nonchalantly. He spotted Lady Catelyn in his line of vision, shaking her head.

“And what’s this about needing a new housemaid?” Ned continued. “Gods be good, Brandon, this must be your fifth in three years. What do you do with them?”

“Things I shouldn’t speak of in the presence of a lady,” Brandon said, grinning into his cup of wine. Lady Catelyn huffily stood up and left the room.  

Ned looks horrorstruck. “Are you really…” His voice dropped to a whisper. “ _Lying_ with them?”

“They like me.” Ned looked horrorstruck. “Gods Ned, I’m not forcing myself upon them. They slip into my bed, not the other way around. I don’t even pay them for their trouble-- I think there’s something about man taking care of a child alone that moves them.”

Ned shook his head. “Clearly they don’t like you that much, with how quickly they’re leaving.”

Brandon only shrugged. The true reasons for their departures sometimes depended on Brandon’s own boredom, but more often it had to do with Jon. It seemed that Brandon emboldened these women when he went to bed with them, and thus they often woke up acting like his wives. It was not so bad to be bickered at-- until they bickered at Jon. It was then that Brandon bade them swift goodbyes. 

Ned sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Don’t you fear fathering bastards?” He asked in a low voice.

Brandon nearly laughed. “For all I know, dear brother, I may have half a dozen bastards running around the North. I denied myself very little when I was younger. You may even ask Lady Dustin about it.”

If Ned was shocked to hear this truth, he did not show it. He only looked disappointed, sporting the same furrow between his brows that their father often had. “But you are-- you were the heir to the North. It’s not… seemly.”

“They say the king you fought for has fathered half a dozen bastards,” Brandon returned cooly.

Ned reddened; Brandon considered it a victory.

“If any of my bastards wish to fight over who keeps my cabin when I am gone, I welcome them to it,” Brandon joked with a grin. “But as of right now, I will require a new housemaid.”

 

**XXIII.**

A woman damn near Old Nan’s age showed up at his door, introducing herself as his new housemaid.

Brandon told her she’s at the wrong house.

 

**XXIV.**

Jon and his cousin Arya are close, as close as Brandon and Lyanna had been.

When he watches them play and laugh together, his chest grows tight and the scars on his throat burns.

“You spend a lot of time with Arya,” Brandon commented to his nephew idly one night.

“She’s a lot like me,” Jon said, a small smile appearing on his lips. “We even look alike." 

“Be careful,” Brandon said without thinking.

“Of what?”

_Be careful you don’t love her too much._

“Nevermind, Jon.”

 

**XXV.**

Jon had mastered hunting at a slower pace than he mastered riding, a hiccup Brandon could only blame himself for. With his eyes unable to see clearly past 30 paces in front of him, he had difficulty demonstrating the patience and skill it took to take down an animal from afar.

Still, they found a compromise.

“A rabbit, perhaps 20 feet straight ahead, lying low in the grass” Jon whispered to him, the two crouched in the grass.

Brandon pondered this. “Not too far. Focus and aim true.”

Jon nodded, nocked an arrow, and inhaled. Brandon nudged his arm straight, watched him draw back the bowstring, heard the twang of its release, and finally, the squeak of a rabbit who wised up too late.

Brandon grinned. “There’s a boy. Well done, Jon.”

Jon smiled, proud of himself. He walked over to his kill and retrieved it, holding the dead rabbit by its ears to show his uncle where the arrow had pierced its throat. Brandon ruffled his hair affectionately, a gesture the 10-year-old Jon took offense to, as he returned it by smoothing his hair back down with his free hand.

They returned to their horses, allowing them to stroll at a leisurely pace, as journey from the edge of the wolfswood to their home was a short one, and the air was crisp and lovely. The sound of hooves toeing the grass and their breathing filled the silence between them until Jon spoke up.

“Uncle, is my father ashamed of me?” The boy asked this in the same tone one might use to ask after the weather. His grey eyes looked not at him, but forward.

“He’s not ashamed of you at all. He loves you.” Brandon had to force himself to think of Ned when he spoke, for intrusive thoughts of Rhaegar always brought on rage.

“But I’m here, and all of my half-siblings are with him, in Winterfell,” Jon countered.

Brandon scratched at his throat. “Your father and I decided it would be better for you to live with me.” When Jon had no reply to this, Brandon added, “You’re treated no different than your half-siblings, Jon. You’ve a servant to keep after you, a cook to cook for you, and a maester to teach you that very same lessons they’re taught.”

“They have a master-at-arms to teach them to fight,” Jon returned petulantly.

“And you have me, which is why you knock Robb into the dirt at least half the time the two of you spar. Do not expect me to pity you, Jon.”

A tense silence followed before Jon spoke again, the words tumbling out of his mouth. “I love them. Robb, Sansa, Arya, Bran, father-- I love them. I miss them when we’re away. I don’t want them to be ashamed of me.”

“You’ve done nothing to shame them,” Brandon returned firmly.

“I’m bastard-born.”

“So what if you are? There are worse fates.”

Brandon was able to see Jon look to him with wide eyes. “You don’t understand, uncle,” the boy returned.

“Don’t understand being a bastard? No, I do not,” Brandon fired back. “But I understand other things. I understand being pitied like a child and my presence frowned upon. You do not see me wallowing. I know I did not teach you to wallow.”

His own anger flared despite his best effort to control it. Brandon dug his heels into his horse’s flank, forcing the horse to gallop the rest of the way home. Jon did the same, his horse lagging behind, but they arrived together. Jon handed off his rabbit for the cook to prepare and followed him noiselessly inside the house.

Brandon collapsed into his overstuffed armchair with a groan. The housemaid, a sweet thing called Annie, rushed to pull his boots off. Brandon touched her shoulder as thanks, then raised the same hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. 

Jon kneeled in front of the fireplace with flint in his hands, striking it until a spark flew into the firewood and caught alight. Brandon could not help but wince. He closed his eyes while the fire grew, and when he opened them again he was looking toward the ceiling.

“I’m sorry,” Jon said, suddenly appearing beside him. “Don’t be cross with me. I did not mean to appear ungrateful.” There was a furrow between his brows that was far too adult, and far too guilty.

Brandon frowned. “I’m not cross, and you didn’t appear ungrateful.” He placed a hand on the back of Jon’s neck and pulled him closer until they were nearly nose-to-nose. “I didn’t like your talk of shame. If you’re ashamed, then I’ve done something wrong.”

“But I’m a bastard,” Jon returned tremulously. “I hear people call me that. Ned Stark’s bastard.”

“Yes, you’re a bastard,” Brandon said nonchalantly; that was one common truth between Ned’s lie and Jon’s reality. “And they’ll call you that until the day you’re dead. You can be ashamed of it, or you can make something of it. You’ve nothing to be ashamed of. Do you hear me?”

Jon nodded sullenly, looking much like Ned when he did, but he had a pout upon his lips and a furrow in his brow that reminded him more of Lyanna. Brandon kissed the top of his head, ruffled his hair, and playfully shoved him away. When Jon regained his bearings, he was smiling and smoothing down his hair.

“Now go and fetch me a drink. I’m dying of thirst.”

 

**XXVI.**

His eyesight was getting worse. He does not mention it to Jon or Ned, but Brandon knows it’s getting worse.

He wondered how much longer it’ll be before he goes completely blind. Brandon thinks he’d rather die before it got to that.

 

**XXVII.**

When Jon reached an age where Brandon could trust him to make long trips by himself, his nephew often spirited himself away to Winterfell for days at a time. He was considerate enough to ask his uncle each time if he wanted to come along, but Brandon nearly always refused. There was precious little for him to do in Winterfell, and it would always be more peaceful sitting at home in his cabin.

He sat on his porch, taking a whetstone to his sword, when he heard galloping hooves come his way, signaling Jon’s return. He looked up from his task to watch his nephew’s blurry form come over the hill, bring his horse to a halt, and hop off to greet him.

He held something in his hands. Something white, and fidgeting. Brandon narrowed his eyes to try and bring the object into clearer focus.

“Afternoon, uncle,” Jon called out in greeting. He shifted the white thing in his arms. “Before I come closer you must promise me you won’t be alarmed.”

“I do not like whatever it is you’re holding already,” Brandon returned suspiciously. “What is it?”

Jon began to walk toward him. “Ghost,” the boy said plainly, before setting the white thing down on the ground. It moved of its own accord, right at Jon’s heels.

“A dog?” Brandon guessed, by the sound of its pants.

“A direwolf.”

Brandon peered at his nephew suspiciously. “Are you making a joke?" 

“No, uncle. After Lord Stark executed the deserter, we found a direwolf. She was dead, with an antler stuck in her neck, but she had whelped pups. _Six_ pups. My siblings took the other five, and I took this one. His name his Ghost." 

Jon was close enough to where Brandon could comprehend that the white puff behind him was in fact, a living creature and by Jon’s word, a direwolf. 

“Gods be good, Ned let you all keep the beasts? Has my brother lost his mind?” He shook his head despite his own curiosity. “These things are wild animals, Jon. They’re not meant to be pets.” 

“They can be, if we train them well. Ghost is the best of them. Here, hold him.” Jon bent down to pick up the beast again, then placed it gingerly in Brandon’s lap, who tried not to jump up at first contact. The direwolf promptly stood on his hind legs and propped himself up against Brandon’s chest with his front ones. Brandon caught a noseful of dog breath, but also made out two red circles amidst an expanse of white.

“An albino,” Brandon noted. Gingerly, he stroked the beast’s back, smoothing down the soft fur.

“I found him in the bushes, away from the rest.” There was an unmistakable note of fondness in Jon’s voice. Brandon could only curse internally, for he knew that meant the boy won’t be rid of it.

“I’m not lifting a finger for it,” Brandon remarked sharply, despite the fact that he was scratching the pup behind its ears. “If it bites me or anyone else here, then I won’t have it.”

“I’ll train it well, I promise,” Jon quickly assured him.

“Aye, alright,” he grumbled. “Now get it off me.”

 

**XXVIII.**

A rider came with a letter from Winterfell, one Brandon could not read.

“Jon!” He called his nephew from the next room over. When he dutifully appeared, Ghost on his heels, Brandon handed him the letter. “Read this for me.” 

A brief silence passed as Jon scanned the letter to determine the important bits. “My lord father says that the Hand of the King has died.”

“Jon Arryn was an old man anyways,” Brandon said flippantly. “Ned loved him dearly. What else?” 

“He says the king is coming to Winterfell, and we must be there to receive him. Uncle Benjen will be there too.” Jon’s head snapped up. “What could the king want?”

“To take something, surely. That’s all kings are good for.”  

“Oh,” Jon said, his head still bent over the letter. “Winter is coming.”

Brandon grimaced. He had a sense of it, felt the air grow brisker and colder, heard less birds in the sky. It had even _snowed_. He had only wished it was only his imagination, or just a spell. 

“Well, we knew that, didn’t we?” Brandon returned. “Couldn’t tell your wolf apart from the snow the other day. That’s what you should have named your beast: Snow.”

“ _I’m_ Snow. He’s Ghost.”

Brandon heard the smile in his voice and managed one in return. “Yes, that’s right. Better than Grey Wind, anyways.”

 

**XXIX.**

Brandon does not attend the feast for the king’s arrival. He did not attend the king’s arrival at all. The day Brandon Stark bent the knee to the fool who called himself king was the day he died. And anyways, Brandon didn’t care for parties.

Benjen visits him the next day, though. His brother’s trips to Winterfell had been few and far in between, but one could hardly hold it against him. He was First Ranger, after all. He had made himself great, while Brandon only made himself blind.

In the comforts of his cabin, the two brothers sat across from each other drinking mulled wine. They said little, as was their custom since they were children, until Benjen said more than Brandon ever wanted to hear. 

“Jon wishes to join the Night’s Watch,” his brother said, as plainly as one might discuss the weather.

Brandon felt the world shift from under him. “No,” he said firmly. “No. We won’t allow it. He’s too young.”

“I told him as much. He reminded me that he turned fifteen on his next name day.” Benjen sighed. “I was near his age when I joined, wasn’t I?”

“He can’t-- He shouldn’t--” Brandon fumbled with his words, trying to find a way to express his surprise, and his refusal. Benjen didn’t know, though. He didn’t know why he wanted to keep Jon close. He didn’t know the truth.

Benjen spoke calmly. “He has a temper. No doubt he learned it from you.”

Brandon’s shoulders sagged, defeated. “Jon’s never angry,” he said softly.

“Well, he is when he’s drunk.”

“Drunk?” Brandon blinked. “Jon doesn’t drink.”

“No?” 

“One cup at dinner, that’s all.”

“Like father would do for us.” Benjen smiled somberly, then gave him a knowing look. “We cannot protect him forever, Brandon. At some point, he must be his own man.”

_I know. I know._ Those were words he wanted to say aloud, but could not find the heart to.

 

**XXX**.

It felt like time was running out, and Jon was running away from him. He stared at his nephew and thought of the hundred things he never told him, of his secrets, of the lies he kept. Would he understand any of it? Would he believe him? Would he hate him for it? It would be a burden to learn of the ghosts he carried on his shoulders. It would hurt him. It was too soon-- or perhaps it was the only time. 

He tried. He tried. He had to remind himself that he tried. But did he really? Was it ever enough?

_I’m sorry, Lyanna._

 

**XXXI**.

“I can’t tell him not to go. I don’t want him to go-- but I can’t tell him that. He’s his own man.” Brandon buried his face in his hands. He did not want to be the one to hold Jon back, to force him onto a path that he did not want. If it was the Night’s Watch Jon wanted, then he should have it-- even if the Wall was so damned far.

Ned sighed. “Lyanna, she-- While she was dying, she asked something else of me. She asked to be buried beside you.”

Brandon’s blood ran cold.

“She thought you were dead. When I told her you weren’t, that you lived-- her eyes lit up, Brandon, and I thought for a moment that she may live too.” Ned crossed and uncrossed his arms. “You’ve done all you could and more, Brandon. Now he chooses his own path.”

 

**XXXII.**

Brandon felt the winds of change swirling around him, but he tried to ignore them. It felt better to focus on ride itself than the reason behind Jon’s invitation to do so.

They ride out to the same field where they had watched a deserter die, with Jon’s direwolf padding silently behind them. It was odd being out here, a place of so many memories. Brandon had watched his first man die here too, by his own father’s sword. He had rode out here with Lyanna countless times. He had dreamed of being a lord here, amongst all the green and beneath a wide blue sky.

“Uncle,” Jon called to him. His tone was one Brandon knew well, of an anxious boy who is both afraid and eager to tell him something. “Uncle, I intend to go north, to the Wall." 

Brandon knew this already. Benjen had told him what the boy wanted. And gods, he was only a boy.

“That’s what you want, then?” Brandon asked, his voice calm despite himself. “To take the black? Swear a vow to lie with no women, father no bastards, forget your own family?”

“I could never forget you,” Jon returned softly.

“Did I not give you a good life, Jon? Didn’t Ned do well by you?”

“Of course-- Uncle, I am not leaving because I am unhappy. I love everyone here, but I must go my own way. Isn’t that what you want from me? To become my own man?”

“I do not want you to leave.”

“I’ve already decided, uncle.” The firmness in his tone said it all. By the gods, he taught him that tone, didn’t he?

Brandon looks toward his nephew, whose face was blurry even at this close distance. His heart ached not knowing the details of his face, if his dark grey eyes were clear or stormy, if his lips were fixed or trembling. How could he know what he wants?

Brandon turns his attention to the line of trees. “Do you know how I got these scars, Jon?” He reached up to touch the ridges beneath his collar. Even now, they burned. 

“I don’t know.”

“Your-- Lyanna, my sister, when I heard she had been kidnapped by the prince, I made straight for King’s Landing to make him pay. I said some foolish things and was arrested. My lord father came for my trial. He demanded a trial by combat; even in his age, he was a good warrior. He could have defeated any of the mad king’s champions.” Brandon swallowed. “The mad king was mad, of course. He tied my father, still in his armor, to a stake, and lit a fire beneath him. He chose the only champion my father could not best. As for me, they put me in this… I don’t know what it was. It had ropes.” Saying the words brought on a rush of memory, of gruff hands forcing him to his knees, of roughly hewn rope biting into his skin. “They tied them around my neck, and set my sword in front of me, just out of my reach. The king said, if I could take the sword and cut my father free, then I would have defeated his champion. I would be free, and my father saved. The more I reached, the less I could breathe. Then, the world went black. It stayed black for a long time.”

A silence passed between them. Brandon had expected nothing less; it was not an easy tale to tell, or to hear.

“You never liked fire,” Jon finally said.

Brandon shook his head. In the silence that came after, Brandon felt opportunity’s sharp bite. _You must tell him now. There is no other time. Winter is coming._ If Brandon perished before he told his nephew the truth, he would die restless. He did not want to become another ghost in Winterfell’s halls. There was already too many-- and he intended to wrap one of them around Jon’s shoulders like a cloak, to bring him chills on his long ride north.

Brandon opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. _I’m a coward. A coward, and a liar._ Yet Brandon knew the truth was simpler than than. He loved him too much. 

“I’ll make you proud, uncle,” Jon said beside him. “I promise.”

_No more promises. Please, no more._  

“I know, Jon.”

 

**XXXIII**.

His cabin feels empty, and painfully so.

**XXXIV**.

“Little lord,” a crone’s voice droned from a nearby room. “My, how you’ve grown.”

Brandon moved toward the sound of the voice until he found Old Nan, looking shrunken in her usual rocking chair, her knitting needles clacking together.

“Have you only just now noticed that?” Brandon asked her.

“You do not come to see me. I know a story of a boy who neglected his elders.”

Brandon nearly rolled his eyes. It had to have been at least 20 years since he had sat down and listened to one of the old woman’s stories, but clearly she had not forgotten how to tell them. 

“Do you frighten Ned’s children with your stories, as you did to us once?”

The woman gave a toothless smile. “They like frightening stories. You did too, if I remember. You and that little sister of yours. You two _asked_ for the frightening stories.”

Brandon touched his neck. “Yes, we did.”

“I could tell you a story if you like. Any story. Perhaps one you haven’t heard before.”

“I’ve heard all the stories. They’re all the same.” 

The old woman tsked. “Nonsense. Every story is different. Every fear is different.” 

“I’ve seen more fearful things than I could ever hear. The gods even struck me blind so I could never see such things again.”

She cackled. “Then it seems _you_ have a story to share with me.”

Brandon shrugged and sat across from her on the floor, the way he used to as a child. In those times he had Ned, Lyanna and Benjen flanking him, leaning in as they hung on Old Nan’s every word. Things were different now. 

“I warn you, old woman, you’ll have nightmares.”

“Oh no, not me. It is only winter that scares me.”

“Winter is coming.” 

“Aye, so it is, little lord. So it is.”

**XXXV**.

He remembered a story once, a story about winter. Of how when food grew scarce, men walked out into the snow to allow the bellies of their women, children, and elderly to feel just a little bit fuller. They claimed to go hunting. That was a lie.

He was so used to darkness. It closed in around the edges of his vision.

_Snow_ , Brandon thought.

He was tired of darkness. _Perhaps_ , he thought. Perhaps he should welcome brightness of snow.

Perhaps he could survive it too. 


End file.
